By the God, but his remembering of his own had demonstrated that. It had thrown the island into uproar, as if that small retrieval had rendered him abruptly no longer a curiosity but a threat. And yet surely he was the same man who had come gently enough to seek out her company, come seeking knowledge to fill the vacuum of his amnesia. He had worked hard to express his gratitude; had, as best she could understand him, told her he offered no harm, was indebted to his saviors. She had believed him then-should she not now? Should the remembering of his name so change the situation some now called for his execution? They had known what he was from the start, when the fishing boat had sighted him, alone and naked on that forsaken rock. He could scarcely have been aught else but one of the Sky Lords fallen from a burning airboat. They had agreed he should be rescued and brought back to the island, that they might learn what they could from the first Kho’rabi ever taken alive. They had never thought to find a man without recollection of his past, all his awareness limited to his brief existence on the stone.
And that had been the irony of it, that his memory was gone, and he had no more idea who or what he was than some storm-beached fish. Had he possessed his memory then, he would have been questioned, the occult power of the crystal bent to plumbing whatever secrets he held. Amnesiac, his mind was locked secure, was innocent as a babe’s, denying them entry. They had not known quite what to do and so had delayed decision.
Some, even then, had spoken for his death, and that had seemed to Rwyan, for all she knew he was the enemy, akin to seeking the death of a child. It seemed to her that his loss of memory obliterated his past, as if he were truly newborn. So she had spoken against so extreme a measure, suggesting that his innocence was no enmity but a chance to learn, perhaps eventually to communicate with the Sky Lords. Gwyllym had supported her, Maethyrene, Jhone, and Marthyn, enough others the vote had come down in Tezdal’s favor: he should be granted his life, so long as he represented no threat.
Now he had won back his name, and the cry went up again, born of ancient hate, of inbred fear, that with that first step taken, he should become again a Sky Lord and therefore should die.
“And what use that?” Gwyllym had demanded. “We’d as well have left him on that rock and saved ourselves the effort of a hard day’s rowing. We wanted him alive, that we might question him; we got him alive. Were we wrong, then?”
“Aye,” some had said in answer. “Wrong to save him, wrong to nurse him, wrong to let him live now.”
“Are our worst fears realized, and the Great Coming imminent,” Gynael had said, “then that should be a waste. Alive, what might we not learn from him?”
“What use is a man without his memory?” had come the countering argument, from Demaeter.
“What danger from a man without his memory?” Rwyan had asked. “To slay him now would be murder, no more.”
“To slay a Kho’rabi is not murder!” Demaeter had shouted, outraged. “It cannot be.”
“He’s an extra mouth to feed when food grows short,” Cyraene had said. “He cannot speak our language-what can we learn from him?”
“What we hoped to learn before,” Gwyllym had declared, and asked that Marthyn speak.
“His name,” the herbalist had said, “is the key. Without that, there could be no unlocking of his mind. Now that he’s remembered it, however … it’s my belief we may use the crystal’s power to gift him our tongue.”
As cries of protest had risen, Gwyllym had shouted, “That was ever our intention! In the God’s name, did you dissenters think to learn his? Do we give him our language, then perhaps we can unpick the strands of his memory and all our efforts not be wasted.”
Some had argued then that it was a dangerous course, that Tezdal might be a Kho’rabi wizard and that to bring him to the crystal serve only to augment his power. Also, that he might in some manner harm the stone; or that, empowered by magic, he find some means to harm the Sentinels themselves.
And Gynael had climbed stiffly to her feet and managed somehow, for all her eyes were rheumy, to imbue her gaze with scorn. “Are we so weak, then?” she had demanded. “Shall we not set a warding on him? Even be he a wizard and not a mere warrior, think you he’s so powerful he shall overcome all of us? I say we’ve an opportunity here none have before known. I say we betray ourselves do we not seize it.”
It had been those hoarse-spoken words, Rwyan thought, that had swayed the conclave. There had been some further debate, but opposition had faltered, and finally it had been agreed Tezdal be brought to the crystal and they endeavor to put the Dhar language in his head. Rwyan had felt sorry for the uncomprehending man as he was hauled away to the white tower.
That had been seven days ago, and for all that time Tezdal had slept, not waking even when Marthyn dripped broth laced with restorative herbs between his lips. He had drunk and slept on. He soiled the bed and did not wake when he was lifted off, the sheets replaced. His chest rose and fell, breath came soft from his mouth, but his eyes did not open. Rwyan wondered if the gramarye had sent his mind into limbo, if perhaps the crystal had absorbed him in some way, leaving behind an empty husk.
She had much time to wonder, for it was agreed that of all on the island, she was the one most sympathetic to the sleeping man. She was the one most likely to win his trust. Hers was the company he had sought out, and therefore hers was the face most likely to reassure him when-if-he woke. Marthyn had confided in her his doubts: Tezdal might not wake, but sleep his life away. He might wake mad; he might regain consciousness aware he was a Sky Lord taken by the Dhar. He might awake still empty of his memory. Whichever, it was better Rwyan’s be the face he saw first; and better he remain securely chained.
It was a duty not entirely to her taste, for it held the flavor of trust betrayed. But she could not refuse, for she was yet a mage, with duty to her land acknowledged, and though it was no easy task to spend her days and nights cooped in the little room “watching” him sleep, she accepted. There was, too, that she pitied him. She could not now perceive him as an enemy: he was only a man, alone in an unfamiliar world; perhaps, even as he slept, aware that around him were folk would slay him, had they their way. She could not help but feel sorry for him. And somehow, he reminded her of Daviot. There was something-she could not precisely define it-about his look, the angle of his jaw, the shape of his skull, his glossy dark hair, that summoned those memories she had easier lived without. Almost, she had mused, as if blood were shared; as if the fisherman’s son from Kellambek and the Kho’rabi knight had some ancient ancestral linkage.
She sighed and rose, stretching muscles cramped from too long without movement, turning her occult sight on the window. Dusk was fallen. She heard the milch cows lowing, goats bleating; from the olive groves a nightingale sang. She lit the lantern, not wanting Tezdal to wake-if he should wake, ever-to darkness. He had suffered, she thought, frights enough.
She went to the door, smiling at herself as she eased it open, as if she had sooner not disturb him than wake him with the sound. She stepped outside, arching her back and tilting her head, wishing for a breeze that was not there. She turned her face skyward, finding the gibbous moon hung low in the east. At least there had been no more skyboats come since that raid that had delivered Tezdal.
Which likely means, she thought, that Gynael was right, and that was a final probing of our defenses. In which case, how long before the Great Coming? Have the Sky Lords learned all they need now? Do their manufactories build the armada? Their wizards harness the elementals?
The waiting, she decided, was the hardest part.
And do they come soon, what shall happen to Tezdal?
She heard a sound then, unfamiliar and therefore distinct, through the murmur of voices, the calling of the goats and the nightbirds. It was the sound of metal chinking, as if chains were tested. She spun around, mouth opening to smile and cry out at the same time as she “saw” her charge.
He shifted on the bed, stirring as might a man waking from a very deep sleep, turning slowly, first on one side, then the other, arms and legs extending so that his chains were strained in their fastenings. Rwyan went to him, drawing up a stool, leaning over him.
His eyes opened.
For a moment they were sleep-fogged, unfocused, then intelligence sparked, and recognition. “I’m thirsty.”
She smiled and said, “Yes, Tezdal,” and fetched a cup, holding it to his lips.
He drank and said, “My thanks,” then raised an arm as far as the chain allowed and said, “You bind me still. Why? Am I so dangerous?”
She said, “Some fear you are, or might be. Do you remember my name?”
He said, “Rwyan,” and smiled. “You were always the kindest.”
Then amazement widened his eyes, and his jaw dropped open. “I understand you.” He said it slowly, as if testing the words, as if they fit unfamiliar on his tongue. “I speak your language.”
She said, “Yes. How much do you remember?”
He frowned then, and thought awhile, and finally said, “I woke with my name. Tezdal. That seemed to frighten some of you, and I was taken to a hall, where people spoke. I thought they discussed what to do with me. Then I was brought to that tower and to a jewel that shone. A magic stone, that gave off light and … touched me. After that …”
He shrugged, rattling the chains. Rwyan said, “It was decided to gift you with our tongue. We channeled the crystal’s power to teach you, that we might converse.” He nodded, staring at her face, wonder on his. Rwyan continued, “That was seven days ago. You’ve slept since. I feared …” She laughed and shook her head. “Needlessly, it seems. What else do you remember?”
His face darkened then. “A rock,” he said. “A bare forsaken rock in a sea I did not know. I spoke with Death there. A boat came-you were on it, and you took me off. You and a tall man called Gwyllym. You brought me here and nursed me back to health. Then I remembered who I am.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
He said, “I am Tezdal,” and frowned again. “But more than that …” The chains rattled as he shook them. “I know you chain me, but I do not know why. I do not know where I came from, or why you fear me.”
“I don’t fear you,” she said.
“Then loose me.”
She shook her head. “I cannot. That must be decided by others.”
“Am I dangerous?” he asked, his face puzzled now. “Am I a madman? A criminal?”
“No, neither of those.” Now she frowned. “You’re a Sky Lord; a Kho’rabi.”
Lines creased his forehead. “I don’t understand. What are those names?”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve heard them said, I think. But …” His head turned in slow negation. “They mean nothing to me.”
Rwyan’s lips pursed. There seemed no guile in him: she believed him. She said, “I must summon others. Do you wait, Tezdal, and perhaps they’ll agree you may be loosed.”